ok. here are some of the sandburg poems that i like a lot. not to the same level as "Chicago" or "Fog" but ones i enjoy. they may not be the best of work, but they are my favorites.
Grass
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
i think this is one of his better pieces
Kin
Brother, I am fire
Surging under the ocean floor.
I shall never meet you, brother–
Not for years, anyhow;
Maybe thousands of years, brother.
Then I will warm you,
Hold you close, wrap you in circles,
Use you and change you–
Maybe thousands of years, brother.
Anna Imroth
Cross the hands over the breast here–so.
Straighten the legs a little more–so.
And call for the wagon to come and take her home.
Her mother will cry some and so will her sisters and brothers.
But all of the others got down and they are safe and this is the only one of the factory girls who wasn’t lucky in making the jump when the fire broke.
It is the hand of God and the lack of fire escapes.
(But all....fire broke. is one line, but i have trouble with indenting here)
A Fence
Now the stone house on the lake front is finished and the workmen are beginning the fence.
The palings are made of iron bars with steel points that can stab the life out of any man who falls on them.
As a fence, it is a masterpiece, and will shut off the rabble and all vagabonds and hungry men and all wandering children looking for a place to play.
Passing through the bars and over the steel points will go nothing except Death and the Rain and To-morrow.
(a four line poem: "Now the stone house", "The palings", "As a fence", "Passing through")
Fight
Red drips from my chin where I have been eating.
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth.
Clots of red mess my hair
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how.
I was a killer.
Yes, I am a killer.
I come from killing.
I go to more.
I drive red joy ahead of me from killing.
Red gluts and red hungers run in the smears and juices of my inside bones:
The child cries for a suck mother and I cry for war.
(the indentions are all over the place, maybe i should work on learning how to indent here)
There's also "Billy Sunday" which is a longer poem and not that great, but i like it. "The Eastland" which is also longer, but better than billy sunday, still not the greatest one though.
i've got more that i'll post later if you want.
jason
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